


Indifference Loved

by Lynchy8



Series: The Life and Times of Enjolras and Grantaire [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Brief Smut, Character Death, It's these two again, M/M, Yorkshire accents are beautiful, and then a few more questions, combeferre is awesome, details of operations, there are answers to some questions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You will need to have read Incapable of Living & Dying for any of this to make sense.</p><p>It's nearly two years since 7th April. Enjolras has a lot of questions. Grantaire probably has the answers. One is in Surrey and the other is in Sheffield.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Shrine of Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome to Part II.
> 
> Are we all sitting comfortably? Excellent.  
> \----
> 
> tw for death.

The February wind bit furiously at his face as Enjolras made his way across the quad towards Main School. As he dug his hands deeper into his coat pocket, he was reminded of a similar February day two years before and his mind suddenly became full of crumbling piers and fish and chips on the beach. He hardly noticed his name being called and it was only when he turned to pull open the door that he noticed Combeferre walking quickly behind him.

“There you are,” he smiled in greeting. “You said you wanted to go through the agenda for next week’s student council meeting.” Enjolras held the door for his friend as the pair of them entered the school, heading towards the library.

This was Enjolras’s life: student council meetings, prefect meetings, senior school meetings. At weekends he volunteered at the Children’s Hospice. The rest of his time was devoted to studying for his four A Levels which he intended to pass well in the summer in order to earn his place at UCL next October.

The young man who walked amiably by his side had gone a long way to making the last seventeen months bearable. Combeferre was a steady, loyal presence. His peaceful influence calmed Enjolras’s naturally hot temper. They seemed to be able to communicate without speech. Combeferre never asked Enjolras to explain anything and yet he felt compelled to tell him everything. It would have been a very lonely time without his guiding hand.

They were not entirely surprised to be accosted in the corridor by one of the office secretaries.

“The Head Teacher wishes to see you, Enjolras.” This wasn’t unheard of. As one of the senior prefects he was often called to meetings with the Head. Combeferre shrugged, said he would meet up with him later and bid him farewell.

On opening the study door, he was surprised to find his mother in the room with the Head Teacher. He instantly reinforced his defences, preparing for the worst.

“Enjolras,” the Head greeted him with faux regard, as though they were old friends. “Come on in and sit down.”

At eighteen, Enjolras was much better at controlling his expressions. He kept a neutral, guarded tone while at the same time taking in the forced relaxed stance of his teacher and the hunched shoulders of his mother. The Head cleared his throat and indicated for his mother to continue.

“We received a call at lunch time from the police,” she started. Her eyes bore an ancient sadness in them that he hadn’t seen for some time. He swallowed, feeling an old sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Grantaire’s mother died this morning.”

He gave himself a moment to let that news sink in. He remembered a kindly smile, a soft hand squeezing his. He remembered a scream.

The Head Teacher’s cough roused him from his reverie. He reached up to tug his hair, a familiar habit he hadn’t quite managed to lose.

“We understand this may be… upsetting for you,” the Head said quite kindly. Enjolras resisted the temptation to snort. It was likely the Head Teacher remembered just as well as he did what had happened at school the last time a teacher had tried to talk about Grantaire in front of him.

“If you wish, you can take a few days to spend time with your family.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest; his life was far too busy to be taking time off right now. But on reflection he thought better of it. He wasn’t sure how he felt. He needed to process and evaluate before he could make a decision. Internally he smiled; Combeferre would be proud of him. He stood up to go.

“Thank you for letting me know,” he nodded to the Head Teacher and turned to his mother who had also risen from her chair.

“I’ll see you at home?” Despite the inflection at the end of the sentence, she understood that it wasn’t really a question. She reached forward to squeeze his arm above the elbow. He permitted a twitch of his lips to betray the smallest of smiles on one side, a smile just for her, before his face closed again and he walked from the room.

+

He caught up with Combeferre outside the library. At the sight of his tranquil countenance, already Enjolras felt better, felt more human. It had only been ten minutes since they had last spoken and yet he felt as though a great shift had taken place.

At his approach, a shadow crossed Combeferre’s face.

“Is everything well?” It was uncanny how Ferre was able to read him so well, able to tell by the set of his shoulders, the placement of his feet, that he was not his usual self. Casting a glance up and down the corridor, he pulled his friend to one side.

“Do you remember what I told you, about what happened to me?” His friend nodded, his expression unchanging, waiting for Enjolras to elaborate. Enjolras sucked in a breath.

“Grantaire’s mother died.” Combeferre was not one for overreactions. He reached forward a hand to his friend’s shoulder and sighed in a gesture of warm compassion and Enjolras was grateful.

“I’m going to go home.” He said at last.

“Of course.” He patted Enjolras’s shoulder once, before removing his hand and fixing him with a singular expression. “Let me know when you get there.”

Only later, when Enjolras thought back over his friend’s words, did he wonder whether that extraordinary man had known then, had known even before Enjolras.

+

Out in the car park, Enjolras threw his bag into the passenger seat of his car and closed the door. He buckled his seat belt and went to turn the ignition but before he did his eye fell on the glove compartment. He leaned forward, opened it up and pulled out a folder. Inside this folder was an old envelope with a Sheffield postmark. The contents showed signs of having been opened and closed, folded and refolded, a number of times. He stared absently at the envelope for a few moments before returning it to the folder, which he subsequently cast onto the passenger seat by his bag.

He put the car into gear and pulled out of the gates. He hardly noticed when he turned his car in the opposite direction to home. By the time he realised that he was headed towards the motorway he decided that he really didn’t care. He joined the M25 and followed signs for the North and the M1.

Common sense kicked in as he passed Toddington and he ended up pulling into the services. Turning the engine off, he rubbed at his forehead with his hands before picking up his phone and dialling Combeferre’s number. He answered after two rings.

“Enjolras?”

“What am I doing, Ferre?” His usually confident and certain voice had given way to hesitation and doubt. He had just driven for over an hour without any clear plan in his mind. 

“Given that it was just gone two o’clock when you left, I would guess you’re at a service station on the M1,” Ferre replied in a very calm voice, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Enjolras blinked, unable to think of a response. From the other end of the phone he heard his friend sigh. He could imagine that Ferre had just taken off his glasses and was now patiently rubbing his eyelids with a thumb and forefinger.

“In the wider scheme of things,” he continued, “you are doing something you should have done long ago. You are going to Sheffield to see your friend, to offer your support and to get some very important answers to some fundamental questions.” There was another pause of silence. “Does that help?”

“Yes,” agreed Enjolras. That was exactly what he was doing and that was exactly what he needed to hear.

“Thanks,” he said gruffly. He heard a soft chortle down the phone.

“As I said, let me know when you get there.” Combeferre disconnected the call.

+

There were two stages to Enjolras’s life; Before R and After R. The time Before R had consisted of fifteen years of boredom, followed by seven months of extreme emotion; a heady mix of euphoria and terror. He had tasted more of life in those months with Aire by his side than at any time before or since.

After R was the last twenty-two months. It had been a slow closing of doors, a healing of wounds.

After receiving the letter of thanks from Aire’s grandmother, he had written back to her almost immediately. In his letter he thanked her for her kindness and had asked her to pass on his best wishes to her grandson. He had carefully and pointedly enclosed his address with the letter, even though her letter had come first so she obviously already knew where he lived. Then he had waited. He waited six months.

In December he sent a Christmas card, addressed to R and his grandparents. He received no reply.

The weight of disappointment sat on him heavily. He didn’t understand what he had done wrong, why R had shut him out. He retreated into himself, his heart well and truly broken.

He had done all he could to block it out. He had thrown himself into his school work, his volunteering work and his groups and responsibilities. He filled the R shaped silence.

Now, driving up the M1, edging closer and closer to Sheffield, he felt as though that scab had been ripped off, revealing the wound beneath. Combeferre was right; he should have done this a long time ago.

+

It took him just over another two hours to make the journey. When he got off the motorway he stopped at a petrol station for something sugary and to tap the address into his GPS. Eventually his car pulled up outside a well-presented detached house in a pretty suburb. In the darkness, Enjolras could make out a blue front door, and a lamp was lit in one of the front rooms.

This was a terrible idea. This was the worst idea Enjolras had ever had. He had just driven for over three hours to a place he had never been before to see someone who, for all he knew, was about to slam that blue front door in his face. Maybe they didn’t even live here anymore. It was entirely plausible that in the last two years they could have moved house. Perhaps Aire had chosen not to live with these relatives and was somewhere else entirely.

He gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring straight ahead into his own reflection in the windscreen, muttering how stupid he was over and over again.

He was jolted back to reality by a soft tap on his driver side window. Looking up he saw it was a lady in her mid-sixties. She was smiling at him through the window.

“Enjolras, In’t it?” She had a lovely soft Yorkshire accent, somewhat muted by the glass. Looking at her with big eyes he nodded slowly. This must be Elsa Griffiths.

“Come in, lad, I’m making a brew.”

+

Five minutes later he was inside the house, sat at an old wooden table in a gloriously homey kitchen, full of open brick work and the scent of proper cooking.

“I’m not sure what I’m doing here.” He confessed. Elsa smiled broadly at him.

“You’re here to see my grandson, I’ll be bound. I hoped you’d come.” Enjolras reflected that this was the second person today who seemed to know him better than himself.

“He’s out with his granddad right now. Men need a drink after the day they’ve had.” He observed the soft sadness that crossed her eyes for a moment and he remembered what had prompted this long journey in the first place. Grantaire may have lost his mother, but this lovely warm woman in front of him had lost her daughter.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said sincerely. She nodded, thanking him. A heavy silence fell over them.

“Will he want to see me?” He felt a kinship with this woman. He felt sure she wouldn’t lie to him, nor would she sugar coat her response. She would tell him straight.

“Aye, of course! Why ever would you think not, my lad?”

“Well, he never answered my letter to you. Or my Christmas card.” It sounded petty to say it like that. He saw her crinkle her face in confusion.

“Well he told me he wrote you, wrote you at least three times.” This was news to Enjolras. A little spark, one he’d long since snuffed out and suppressed, suddenly guttered into life in his chest. He also felt vaguely nauseous. Could this whole horrible situation be the fault of Royal Mail?

“He were dead thrilled when you sent that Christmas card. Got ever so excited, you know what men are” she chortled merrily. Enjolras found himself chuckling with her, felt the tension in his body start to ebb in her comforting presence. Then she stopped and put her head on one side.

“Is that why you stopped writing then? You didn’t get his letters?”

Before he could answer he heard the unmistakable sound of a door being opened and voices filled the hall. The warm, relaxed feeling evaporated immediately.

 _Oh god_ , he thought, _I’m not ready. I’m not even nearly ready for this_.

Unbidden images flashed through his mind of the last time he had seen the boy – the man – he was about to see again for the first time in two years. Scared brown eyes, the rattle as he struggled to breathe, the blood on the carpet. He rose unsteadily to his feet.

Aire’s grandfather entered the room first, a short man, mostly bald, in a green overcoat. He raised his eyes at the stranger standing at his kitchen table. Behind him came Grantaire.

“Hello love. I found Enjolras outside in his car. I invited him in to tea. Isn’t that nice?”

+

He was here, actually here, standing in front of him, alive.

Enjolras took him in. He was a bit broader in the shoulder, and his chest and waist had filled out slightly. He’d lost the softness of boyhood, his cheeks and jawbone now clean and elegant lines. The scar on his jaw was now more visible between the stubble. Enjolras was relieved to see the familiar curls poking out from underneath a beanie hat, something recognisable.

His skin was ruddy and had lost that glowing pallor. The bags under his eyes had gone too, all positive changes.  Finally he met the young man’s eyes. They were the same. Enjolras sighed with a smile. They were the same soft brown eyes.

Eyes that were staring at him in complete shock.

+

It was Enjolras who broke the silence.

“Erm, hi.”

Ok, not the most memorable first words, but it was more that R had said. It was a start.

“Hi,” Aire returned and _oh god_ his voice was different too, slightly softer than before. Enjolras wondered what differences R could see in him, if any. How much had he changed since they had last seen each other?

“Why don’t you show him your bedroom?” Elsa said brightly, pointedly ignoring the atmosphere in the kitchen. Enjolras winced as a moment of déjà vu passed through him.

He looked up at Aire, wondering what his reaction would be. The man shrugged his shoulders.

“Sure, if you want to?” Enjolras found himself nodding. Aire turned away to walk back out of the kitchen, jerking his head for the blonde to follow him. He cast a last glance at Elsa who smiled encouragingly at him, before scooting off after him.

R was waiting in the hallway, an unreadable look on his face. He seemed to be waiting outside the door that led to the cupboard under the stairs. Once Enjolras had caught up with him, he pulled it open to reveal a stair case heading down. The pair trooped down into the darkness below.

+

R’s basement room was incredible. Enjolras stared at everything around him in wonder, taking it all in. The whole basement had been converted into a mini flat for R to live in, to make his own.

In one corner was a sink unit with old paint pots on the draining board, the shelves above it filled with brushes, tins and empty water jars. To the side was an easel along with a number of canvases in various states of completion. Further in was a media station which held a TV, DVD player, CD player and games console. DVDs were stacked haphazardly to one side, while a number of CDs were stuffed into racks. There were also a couple of shelves of vinyl.

There were six floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that were groaning under the weight of all the texts they contained. Additionally, most of the floor and surfaces were covered in paper, books, sketch pads and other random items of interest. In the far corner was a double bed, duvet askew as though Aire had crawled out of it not that long ago.

But what really caught Enjolras’s attention, what took his breath away, was the large collage across the back wall of photos, sketches and postcards. It was a riot of images. The postcards were of pieces of art, mementos of galleries and museums visited. He recognised R’s hand in the sketches, though his technique had obviously evolved.

The photos were of a variety of subjects. Some were of pastoral landscapes, miles and miles of idyllic rolling hills. Some were of urban landscapes, close ups of concrete, some art deco architecture, woodwork and street furniture. Some photos were of parties attended – unfamiliar faces gurning for the camera, drinks in hand.

Right in the middle of this collage, in the centre of the wall, was a photo that he had thought lost long ago. A photo of a spring day a whole life time before. A photo of two boys lying on their backs in the grass, blonde curls and brown curls, smiling up at the camera with unbridled joy and innocence.

He turned to look at Aire who was standing awkwardly on one hip in the middle of the room, chewing his thumb.

“How do you have this?” Enjolras pointed at the photo. R stepped forward, as if he needed to be reminded of which photo Enjolras could be referring to.

“The camera was in my bag. My grandparents got the film developed.” He shrugged. “Do you mind?” he raised a sardonic eyebrow, but Enjolras had turned back to the wall.

“No. I just… I thought it lost, that’s all.” He heard Aire sigh behind him.

“Enjolras, why are you here?”

Enjolras turned to him. The moment had come. He thought about what Combeferre had said. He was here to offer support, but also to get some important answers to some fundamental questions. It was strange, but having R in front of him like this, in the flesh, made all those fundamental important questions fly right out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The folder in Enjolras's car is where he keeps all R's stuff; the letter from Elsa and the many sketches R drew while they were together that were previously hidden in Enjolras's room. He put them in the car because he didn't want to keep finding them in his drawers. At least in the glove compartment they would be out of sight and out of mind.
> 
> The Trafalgar drawing is still on his bedroom wall.


	2. Their Existence Is Not Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because he was over the age of eighteen, people seemed to be under the illusion that Aire was old enough to cope with this. Sitting in waiting room after waiting room drinking mud passed off as coffee from pathetic plastic cups he felt someone had made a mistake somewhere along the line to think he was anywhere near ready to deal with this crap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for blood, death and details of injuries/operations

This day definitely ranked in the top five longest days of Aire’s life. He felt as though he had been sitting in hard plastic chairs for at least five years.

The telephone call from the hospital had come at just gone five o’clock that morning. There hadn’t been any tears; too many had been shed before and now there just weren’t any left.

His grandfather had driven him to the hospital so they could start to go through the seemingly never-ending list of processes required when somebody dies. They would need to advise the Court of Protection who had been overseeing his mother’s affairs for the past two years. They would have to apply for a Grant of Probate as his mother never had the chance to make a will. They needed to tell Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, the local council, the funeral directors, the bank, the DVLA, the National Insurance office and the passport office.

In order to do any of that they would need to register the death. Before they could do that they required permission from the coroner. It was going to be a very long process indeed.

Because he was over the age of eighteen, people seemed to be under the illusion that Aire was old enough to cope with this. Sitting in waiting room after waiting room drinking mud passed off as coffee from pathetic plastic cups he felt someone had made a mistake somewhere along the line to think he was anywhere near ready to deal with this crap. His Granddad proved to be a godsend, with a steady hand on his shoulder and a gruff “easy there, son” in his ear.

Afterwards they both retired to the pub, the cosy local place where his Granddad has been drinking for the past thirty years. They all knew him in there, and since last September Aire had been joining him so they knew him too. Propping up the bar, they stared silently at their pints, joined together in contemplation.

Aire was looking forward to getting home, ordering some junk food and going to bed before getting up tomorrow to do it all again.

He barely noticed the red car parked on the street outside his house. But then he was walking into the kitchen and _oh for fuck’s sake that’s just not fair_.

Of all the people to appear from who knows where, from Mount Olympus itself in all likelihood, why did it have to be him in his kitchen having a nice chat with his grandmother? How the hell was this guy able to do this? Just waltz back into his life at his darkest moments as though he had never left.

Having said that, there had been more than a few dark moments in recent times when the sun god had been spectacularly absent from proceedings. Where was the light of Apollo when he woke up in hospital with only the knowledge of his name for company? He was all on his own during “recovery”, during physiotherapy and psychotherapy.

No greek gods fell from the heavens when he was discharged into the care of his maternal grandparents and there was no warm hand in his when he returned to the hospital each week to see his mother, who slept on and on like Endymion except these eyes remained steadfastly closed.

He had not blamed Enjolras at all. It was absolutely right and natural that he should walk away while he still could. It was for the best, really. R had nearly got him killed. His memories of that day had been swallowed by the dark but he had read the police reports, the witness statements and most of the inquest report to know what had happened that day, what that man had done.

He knew that he had nearly died, having lost five pints of blood after receiving a well-placed stab wound to the abdomen that managed to perforate one of his kidneys, his spleen and his left lung. They kidney had proved unsalvageable (which is why god gave you two, his Grandma had said) but everything else had been patched up over a number of operations. He knew Enjolras had ended up in hospital too after collapsing with the shock of it all, something he felt horribly guilty about.

By the time he was discharged in the summer he knew in his heart of hearts that Enjolras would probably never want to speak to him ever again. This was confirmed when the letter his Grandma had pressed him to write had gone unanswered. He could not bring himself to hate the guy for just leaving him. He had fucked up his life more than enough.

When all the fuss had died down he hadn’t known what to do with himself. He had never really met his mother’s parents before as part of his father’s control freakery had been to sever all communication between the families. He found them to be very loving, very frank and very understanding people and he had absolutely no idea how to work with them.

He found it quite difficult at first, not having to ask permission to do something or justify how he spent his time. More than that, these people spoke kindly to him, welcomed him into their home with open arms. They seemed to like him, unquestioningly and without pity.

They knew he was gay because they were present at the inquest when a tape of Enjolras’s call to the emergency services had been played. There had been a quick conversation quite early on along the lines of “we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to but we want you to know that it’s all fine” which had taken a huge weight off his mind.

In addition to all of this, suddenly he found himself with his own private space. He was encouraged to fill it with stuff of his own choosing. He had his own front door key, his own bathroom, his own money. He could walk into a shop and buy anything he wanted, within reason.

He discovered the joys of internet shopping. For about six months there was a steady stream of parcels arriving every other day containing books, music and films. He took himself to art galleries, to music concerts and to local theatre productions of random plays. He didn’t have the patience for snobbery, consuming everything he could with a desperate hunger and thus widening his palate.

He listened to Chopin, ACDC, Elvis, Fats Waller, Pink Floyd and Nina Simone with equal passion. He watched old movies and new movies, good movies and bad movies without worrying about whether it was cool or not.

Finding it impossible to just sit around and do nothing, he enrolled in an Art course at college, managing to get accepted on the strength of his mock results. The college were happy to put him forward to sit his GCSE exams in the winter after he was discharged from hospital. His grandparents had initially been worried that it might prove too much work for him; on the contrary, he found himself worried that he wasn’t working hard enough, now that there was no pressure from home to get full marks on every test.

When he took the exams he passed them well, even the dreaded maths paper. He ceremoniously burnt his maths text book in the back garden, declaring he would never do another equation again as long as he had air in his lungs.

College itself was almost traumatic for him in how normal everything was. Nobody knew who he was or what had happened to him. People who spoke to him did so on the strength of what he was reading or things he was sketching. He relished the anonymity of it all. Nobody treated him as though he was broken or a pariah.

Slowly, Aire had begun to reassemble himself in this new life without Enjolras.

Then that bloody Christmas card had arrived.

There was initial euphoria followed by that extremely rare creature, hope. He wrote again to Enjolras, delighted that he had reopened the lines of communication. He was met with fourteen months of silence. That card, it seemed, had not been a hello at all but a goodbye; a door slamming shut rather than one creaking open.

So why on earth was he here, now, drinking tea as though he had always belonged in this kitchen.

From the corner of his eye, he picked up on the satisfied smirk on his Grandma’s face, in as much as his Grandma could smirk. She suggested with the smile of a crocodile that perhaps Aire should show Enjolras his room, as though he were any other guest come to visit. He could have sunk through the floor.

+

Now Enjolras might not have actually been the personification of the sun, but Aire’s grandmother was certainly under the impression that it shone out of his arse. This would have been frustrating if Aire hadn’t privately agreed with her. The difference was that she believed Enjolras wanted something to do with R, and R was fairly certain that he didn’t. Having Enjolras brought up in random conversations was almost unbearable, yet she did it on a semi-regular basis, chattering about what a nice boy he seemed, how she was grateful to him every day for what he had done, how R really should write again, just in case.

In February he had given in and sent one final note. He felt both vindicated and bitterly disappointed to be proved right when he got no response; he so wanted Enjolras to prove him wrong.

When he discovered that his grandmother had not only found the disposable camera, but had gone to the trouble of having the photos developed, he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He certainly didn’t have the heart to tell her when those photographs had been taken.

Nearly all of them had been stuffed into a drawer out of sight; all except one. It had been the start of the wall, really, that photo. He had put it right in the middle and built up everything around it until the entire wall was nearly covered in stuff. And still those piercing blue eyes continued to smile up at him from the past.

+

He took the opportunity while Enjolras’s back was turned to take a good look at him. He seemed taller than he remembered, but it could be an optical illusion. He was definitely thinner, more toned. His cheek bones which had always been well defined were now sharper than ever.

He moved with an easy grace and there was a soft disdainful pout to his lower lip that R could not help but notice. He was wrapped in a black double-breasted paletot, which clung to his narrow waist in a way R really didn’t want to think about right now.

He was caught off guard when Enjolras suddenly turned to him, a strange magical glow to his face and asked about the photo on the wall. He forced himself to take a step closer to this strange phantom in his room who had conjured himself from nowhere, presumably to taunt him.

Deep inside he felt old habits awakening, old sarcastic defences rising to the fore.

“Do you mind?” he heard himself say, raising a challenging eyebrow. He saw a flash of confusion behind Enjolras’s eyes and his stuttered, somewhat lost reply. He suddenly felt very tired indeed.

“Enjolras, why are you here?”

+

Enjolras took a deep breath.

“Firstly, I’m really sorry about your mum. The police rang my parents earlier.” He felt he should try to explain why he had come all this way, uninvited, after such a long silence.

He watched R pull his arms around himself, keeping his watchful eyes on Enjolras as though trying to riddle him out.

“She never woke up,” he said at last. “I used to go to see her once a week, chat to her, tell her what I was up to. No one was ever able to tell me if she could hear or not, whether or not she was in pain.” He stopped, huffing a sigh, lowering his eyes to the floor. “At least now I know.”

There was a silence which neither of them really knew how to fill. Enjolras decided to take the plunge, to change the subject and just hope for the best.

“Your Gran said you wrote to me.” R raised his eyebrows again, fixing a stare at Enjolras.

“I never got any letters.” Aire put his head on one side.

“I sent you three,” he replied steadily. “One in August after I got out of hospital, one at Christmas after I got your card, and one the following February.” His eyes were challenging and hard, a look Enjolras did not recognise. He took a brave step forwards.

“I swear, on everything we had, I never got a single one.” His voice was level, his eyes unflinching. Aire considered him for a moment. Enjolras saw his shoulders relax.

“I believe you,” he said at last. Then he turned and walked away from Enjolras, leaving him in the middle of the room. He flopped down on the bed and reached down to grab a laptop off the floor.

“Take it you’re staying?” he said casually, powering it on.

“I hadn’t really thought.” He laughed suddenly at the ridiculousness of it all.

“I just got in the car and drove here. I don’t even have a change of clothes or anything.” R looked up from the laptop and smiled at him, the first genuine smile of the evening.

“You, impulsive? I refuse to believe it,” he chuckled. “You can stay, it’s fine. Gran and Granddad are very relaxed. Very big on giving me my own space. Pizza ok for you?” Enjolras nodded, watching R’s fingers skip lightly over the keyboard.

“Still Hawaiian? Olives, no mushrooms?” he grinned at Enjolras’s surprised smile of acknowledgement. Some things didn’t change.

Enjolras turned back to look at the photo again.

“I still can’t believe you have that,” he murmured, looking at the younger version of himself. Behind him, R chuckled.

“I have the rest here, somewhere. But that one was my favourite.” He threw the laptop to one side and strode to Enjolras’s side.

“I guess, as you didn’t get my letters, that I really should thank you.” His voice had changed again, now quiet and serious. Enjolras turned to face him.

“I don’t remember anything about that day. I read the police report but the memories… they aren’t my memories. I know the facts but not much more.” He seemed to be embarrassed that he couldn’t remember. Enjolras privately thought it was something of a blessing. He had wished on more than one occasion that he could forget.

“I thought maybe that was why you didn’t contact me again, that you didn’t want to know me after what happened.” His voice was nearly a whisper. Enjolras reached out to him but R recoiled from his touch.

“I wouldn’t blame you, of course. And I know your dad was really angry…” Here, Enjolras held up his arms to interrupt him but he kept talking, suddenly unable to stop now that he had started.

“Well yeah, I mean, I wasn’t awake to hear it myself but from what my Granddad said… ok I can tell from that face you have no idea what I’m talking about.” He smiled nervously, but his eyebrows were creased. He reached up to rub the back of his neck.

“Look, I’m not trying to start a family row, and I totally understand, and my Granddad is a really forgiving guy…”

“R, you’re rambling.” Enjolras folded his arms, fixing his piercing gaze on Aire, willing him to spit out whatever it was he was trying to say.

“Your dad came to the hospital. The general gist of the chat with my grandparents was that it would be best if I went back to Yorkshire with them as soon as possible so you could recover. He even paid for the private ambulance.”

Enjolras counted to ten. Then he counted to ten again. He could feel the warmth in his face as he tried to keep check on his temper. He was going to have one hell of a talk with his parents when he got home.

“I’m sorry that happened,” he managed to keep his voice level. Aire raised his eyebrows.

“Wow, I’ve never seen you do that,” he muttered. Enjolras jerked his head, his expression questioning. R smiled again.

“You’ve finally mastered your temper. I thought you were going to explode beautifully all over my bedroom but actually you managed to keep your lid on.” Enjolras glared which only made R smile wider.

“Oh, but I have definitely missed that!” he chuckled gleefully. Enjolras felt himself softening. He pushed the thoughts of his parents from his mind.

+

The pizza was good, really good. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until it had arrived, spreading its delicious aroma around the basement. Lying on R’s bed watching a French animated film that Enjolras had never heard of was also really good. They sat in silence, but it was a warm, comfortable silence.

Suddenly Enjolras’s phone started to sing. He sprung up to wrestle it out of his coat which lay discarded on a chair. The caller ID said Combeferre.

“Shit! I am so sorry,” he answered.

“Hello to you too,” Ferre’s voice was smooth. “I take it you’re not dead at the side of the road then.”

“No, no, I made it. I’m here.”

“Excellent, perhaps you could share that information with your parents.” Enjolras ran a hand through his hair, sucking his teeth.

“Your father called round. He seemed to be under the impression that you were hiding under my bed.” His voice was dry, evidently unimpressed. Enjolras cringed. His father never had gotten round to the idea that Ferre was just a friend. As much as he tried to give the impression of being ok with his son’s sexuality, he treated any male friends as though they were potential suspects. Suspects of what, he had never managed to ascertain.

“I suggested that he might try ringing you directly if he was concerned as to your whereabouts.” Enjolras hiccoughed, trying to suppress a semi hysterical laugh. “He left five minutes ago so I imagine your phone will start to beep about…” Right on cue the Call Waiting sounded on Enjolras’s phone.

“You owe me,” was the last thing he heard his friend say before the call ended.

“Hi,” _Please let it be mum, please let it be mum_.

“Where the hell are you!” It wasn’t his mother and it wasn’t a question.

“You’re mother is going out of her mind with worry. You can’t just disappear off without a word…” Enjolras held the phone away from his ear, casting an apologetic look over at R who was sitting up on the bed having paused the film to watch the fireworks. After a bit, the stream of words echoing in the speaker ceased and Enjolras returned it to his ear.

“I’m in Sheffield.” Ah-ha, that shut him up. Most effective.

“Why are you in Sheffield?” The shouting had ceased, these words were instead said very quietly indeed.

“I think you know why, and yes, we will be talking about it when I get home.” Enjolras’s tone was steely and focussed, channelling his anger into a biting tone. “Is mum there?” There was a bit of shuffling as the phone was passed over without another word. He spent a few moments reassuring her that he was fine and safe, that he was sorry for making her worry and that he had meant to call but that he had just lost track of time.

“Sweetheart, where are you?” she said, her voice cracking slightly with emotion. He sighed softly.

“I’m with Aire, mum.” There was a moment of silence over the line.

“Really?” she sounded completely gobsmacked, as if that was the last thing in the whole world she had expected him to say. He wondered if his father and even told her what he had done, about paying for R to transfer to a Yorkshire hospital. His instincts told him no.

“Right,” she said at last, with a deep breath, suddenly sounding much calmer. “As long as you’re ok.”

“I am, yes. I’m sorry I made you worry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, yeah?” They muttered a few more reassuring words to each other before hanging up.

“So I take it I’m persona non grata in your house,” mused R with the air of someone who really didn’t give a damn. Enjolras shrugged, taking another slice of pizza.

“Right now I really couldn’t care less.”

+

They sat together in the dark and R wanted to die, right now. His Apollo was _here_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They're watching Belleville Rendez-Vous (as should you)
> 
> R's gran is a clever soul if ever there was one.
> 
> Again, the title of this chapter is shamelessly stolen from the Brick.


	3. Sweetest Downfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dark you can hide. The dark is forgiving. Dark is lustful, magnetic. Dark pulls two hands together that would otherwise dare not touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for scars

In the dark you can hide. The dark is forgiving. Dark is lustful, magnetic. Dark pulls two hands together that would otherwise dare not touch.

As Enjolras and Aire sat in the dark, watching the rest of the film, a strange game of chess began. One would shift, the other would fidget. A cough, a clearing of the throat, a sip of drink, another bite of pizza. The crossing of ankles, a crossing of arms. Blue eyes shot right, brown eyes shot left.

Two minds were screaming at each other in frustration.

R was completely tortured. His blonde god was sitting, no, _reclining_ on his bed, looking perfectly at home. In the shadows he could make out the slight flush to his cheeks left over from the recent telephone call.

His brain rang with the conviction of Enjolras’s voice. He had missed that voice. He had missed everything about the silhouette before him. Memories were a poor substitute for the living, breathing reality sitting less than a foot away. It had been so hard to switch off everything he had felt for Enjolras and get used to being without him. He’d been a golden light in the darkness. For seven months he had something to look forward to, to get out of bed for. Watching Enjolras had been like watching a bird in flight. In his presence, Aire had felt whole again.

He’d worked hard to forget that warm, Enjolras feeling; to numb it with other things. Some days had been harder than others. Some days he lay in bed, unable to move, unable to entertain the idea of going to college, of painting or drawing or reading. He could spend days just staring at the ceiling wondering what the point of any of it was.

Some days he never slept, he would stay up all night, stripped to the waist, creating image after image, sketching, painting, drawing, building until his pots were empty and canvases full.

He suspected his doctors were slightly frightened of him. Whenever they asked him how he felt he would look at them right in the eye and remind them in very plain terms that his own father had tried to kill him; how did they think he felt? It seemed a better response than the truth – that he barely felt anything at all.

Now, all the little lights had started to blink on as if he was being brought back from a state of suspended animation. All the hard work to carry on by himself had been swept away like waves breaking over a sandcastle. He felt raw, all his nerve endings exposed.

_Why are you here_ , he thought to himself. Why today, of all days.

He wondered how Enjolras felt, how he had fared, how he had survived. He tried not to think of autumn rain, of soft lips, of 60 foot Christmas trees, of a hurried first kiss in a school bathroom.

+

Enjolras could feel the heat from R’s skin where he lay on the duvet. R had always been a source of heat and warmth compared to Enjolras’s permanently cold hands and feet. Enjolras allowed his eyes to close briefly, thinking of that warm skin beneath his own fingers, before forcing himself to snap back to reality.

Disguised as a scratch to the bottom of his shin, he shifted to shoot a quick look at Aire. He couldn’t get over how well he looked in comparison to the sallow youth he had known from before. His eyes were showing signs of fatigue after what had obviously been an emotionally exhausting day, but generally his body spoke of someone who ate well, had a comfortable bed and a good home.

The face was completely expressionless. He was used to this, remembered all too well how good Aire was at hiding things, especially how he was feeling. He was good at deflecting as well, which is probably why they were sitting in silence watching a film instead of talking. Enjolras suddenly remembered about all the questions he had.

They had more or less sorted out the fact that they had both intended to keep in touch but _things_ had gotten in the way. Enjolras felt his heart sinking, suddenly wondering how much his parents knew about the postie’s sudden inability to deliver mail from Sheffield. But where did that leave them?

Aire had said he could stay here, which was just as well as he didn’t particularly relish the thought of driving for another three hours just to have a massive argument when he got home. Conversation had been safe but generally positive. He smiled internally at the look on Aire’s face in response to his infamous glare, the way his eyes had glittered and his lips had twisted into a smirk. He had said he’d missed that glare. Enjolras had definitely missed that mouth.

He sighed. Today was probably not the day for talking about feelings. It was definitely not the time to bombard the poor guy with questions; his mother had just died after two years in a coma. Anyway, it wasn’t the easiest conversation to just bring up. _Hey, remember that day you nearly died and I saved your life? I was wondering if you could answer a few questions_ …

In addition to that, from what R had said he didn’t even remember anything. _These memories are not my memories_.

“Are you even watching this?”

Enjolras jumped, blushing at being caught out as his internal monologue was interrupted.

“Well it’s just your face has pulled about ten different expressions in the last five minutes at whatever it was you were thinking so deeply about.” R had a wry smile on his face.

“Nice to see you were paying attention to the film too,” Enjolras shot back defensively, causing the other guy to bark a laugh.

“This is my film, I’ve seen it about ten times. I think I know the plot by now,” he grinned smugly. He reached out for the remote and hit the pause button.

“Come on, out with it,” he huffed, managing to sound braver than he felt. A tight knot in his stomach reminded him that the other thing with Enjolras was how much he liked conversations.

For a moment, Enjolras entertained the idea of actually telling Aire what he was thinking about, telling him about how he desperately needed to talk with him about what had happened to them both. In his mind he played out R’s likely reactions; at best he would curl up into himself, or maybe they would just get into one of their arguments. At worst he could see himself being bodily ejected from the house and a long drive home.

“Can I hug you?” Enjolras was surprised as the words left his mouth. He saw R’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes widen.

“I mean, you can say no. But, I just really, really want to hug you right now.” He saw R nod the smallest of agreements.

He shuffled over and slowly, carefully, wrapped his arms round Aire’s shoulders.

His head still fitted neatly into the crook of R’s neck. He breathed in, relishing the delicious smell of the skin there. He felt the weight of Aire’s head on his shoulder, aware of those arms round him, the hand clasping his own back. The two lost puzzle pieces slotted together as though they had never been ripped apart.

“Thank you,” R’s voice mumbled in his ear. “I have no fucking clue how or why you’re here, but thank you.” The grip on him got tighter and in turn, Enjolras increased his own hold, grasping R’s shirt with his fingers.

“I missed you,” the words were out of his mouth before had a chance to switch his brain into gear. He waited for R to freeze, to pull away. But he didn’t, the grip remained the same.

Enjolras felt something cracking inside him. This was R, here, in his arms. Alive. He was breathing, living and right here. Everything he’d been holding in, everything he had been suppressing and ignoring and replacing with other things suddenly forced its way forward, forced its way out. He would be surprised except somewhere in his head he recognised it, knew how only R could have this effect on him. He remembered all the impulsive, uncharacteristic moments he had experienced in this man’s company.

R, for his part, was in heaven. He was whole, complete and whatever happened next, whenever Enjolras eventually came to his senses and pulled back then at least he would have this, would have the echo of blonde curls spiralling round his mind.

Neither would admit later to being the first; who first pressed a kiss to whose neck. It was all academic anyway. One kiss became many, became a flurry of kisses to necks, cheeks, lips, eyes. Hands moved, searching for skin and grip, rubbing down sides, tugging through hair. In a minute they were both on their knees, rediscovering each other’s taste, each other’s scent.

Hands scrabbled at the hems of shirts, and the buckles of belts. They groaned together, melted together, rolled down onto the pillows, starting the old dance, hungrily seeking and finding. Enjolras briefly wondered if this was a good idea; Aire considered for a moment whether or not he was about to wake up, praying fervently to things he did not believe in that the dream might last a bit longer.

Both trains of thought were hastily discarded as they became overwhelmed by the sensations surrounding them.

_In the dark you can hide_. Enjolras pulled off Aire’s shirt, eager to run his hands down the other man’s chest but he started in surprise when his hands were suddenly caught and moved to his back and shoulders.

“Don’t” whispered Aire into his mouth. His brain was fogged, lost in the moment but he understood. He would keep his attentions elsewhere. He raised his own arms as R tugged at Enjolras’s shirt. They were apart for only a moment before Aire pressed down against him, pushing him back and pinning him to the mattress.

“What do you want, Enjolras?” his voice was low and dark, murmuring the words between kisses. His hand held firmly to Enjolras’s jaw, his fingers splayed across that fine, well defined cheek. Enjolras shuddered at the way his name rolled off R’s tongue.

“You,” was all he could say. In the darkness he could just make out a flash of a grin on the face above him.

The hand on his cheek was suddenly moved to palm him through his trousers and he was unable to suppress a moan. He heard the soft chuckle above. He felt R’s breath against his ear, against his neck. Teeth sank into the flesh there and he shifted into the sensation.

“Oh fuck,” he dragged out the vowel of the last word, trying to keep some sort of grip on reality but otherwise becoming totally lost. Aire was delighted.

He raised his own leg, pressing it firmly between R’s thighs, enjoying the effect it had. He felt R thrust against him. Everything was fresh yet familiar, simultaneously new and old territory.

“Your hands,” he gasped, reaching up to grab at R’s arm, running his fingers over the muscles there. He thrust up, seeking friction. R kissed him again, sucking at his bottom lip.

“What. Do. You. Want.” He sucked and nipped at Enjolras’s throat, shoulder and collarbone while his hands continued to tease.

“Do you have… can we…” Enjolras’s eyes were closed, the words tumbling over his lips as he shifted on the sheets beneath him. R smiled to see him, waves of desire and love and loss coursing through him, confusing him. He needed this man, wanted this man. He would give this golden god whatever he desired.

The blue eyes flew open, fixing on him. He relished the familiar swoop in his guts. He knew then exactly what Enjolras wanted. But he needed to hear him say it.

R swallowed as Enjolras sat up, his eyes mercilessly directed upon him. They were so close. Enjolras lifted his hand to run across R’s jaw, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“What do you have?” he murmured, before running his tongue from the base of his neck up until nipping aggressively at his ear. R reached over to his cabinet and retrieved some lube and a condom. Enjolras ignored the stab of jealousy that tried to poke at him, to make him think about why those things should already be there, and instead concentrated on the look of hope and fear on R’s face, wanting to kiss that fear away.

“Perfect,” he purred.

+

Enjolras woke sore yet sated. His mind swam with the frenzied memories of the previous night, of R above him, his arms holding him, fingers marking him with bruises as he thrust into him, fucking him into the mattress, giving him everything he wanted and needed.

_Oh my god._

He’d slept with R.

What the hell had he been thinking? He’d driven up here after a two year silence, they’d spoken barely five words to each other and then he had pretty much begged to be fucked? He was horrified with himself.

“Stop it,” R’s voice was groggy with sleep. Enjolras turned to look at him. The man’s eyes were still closed, his long lashes rested gently on his cheek.

“I can hear your thoughts from here, stop freaking out.”

They were wrapped up together in the duvet. He couldn’t help but smile a little at the marks that peppered the man’s collar and base of his throat.

“I am not freaking out,” Enjolras qualified. R snorted.

“Then why are you pulling the same face you made when we first kissed?” he opened his eyes to smile softly at the blonde in his arms. Enjolras closed his eyes, shaking his head at this impossible man.

“I don’t want you to think that this is what I came for,” he whispered, pressing his face into R’s shoulder, wrapping an arm over the other man’s waist. He felt Aire’s body tremor with a chuckle beneath his touch.

“Oh, believe me, of all the things that went through my head when I saw you in my kitchen, sex was definitely not on the list.” He pressed a kiss to Enjolras’s curls. They rested in contented silence for a moment.

“I thought you wanted one of your famous ‘conversations’” he chided and Enjolras attempted to glare into his skin, but Aire circled his arms around him firmly, holding him tight.

“We do have things to talk about,” he mumbled, not wanting to spoil the moment. Aire remained relaxed around him.

“I know,” he answered. “But not right now, ok?”

“Ok.”

Aire broke his grip on him, and Enjolras was embarrassed at the needy noise that escaped this throat. R chuckled.

“Back in a second,” he teased, rolling away and throwing back the duvet. Enjolras was disappointed when he grabbed a t-shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head, depriving him of a good view as R walked away towards a door at the other end of the room which presumably led to a bathroom.

It occurred to him as he lay stretched out in R’s bed that he would have to put his sixth form uniform back on. He groaned, pulling the duvet up over his head, snuggling down into the warm scent of Aire’s sheets. He felt the mattress dip as R returned.

“All right, down there?” the soft voice was warm and light. He grunted a reply as hands snaked under the duvet to find him. He reappeared above the covers, pulling a mock grumpy face.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he pouted, reaching forward to tug at the unwelcome t-shirt. He was surprised to see R wince. It was supposed to be an invitation. He wanted R to come back to bed, to get lost in him, be consumed by him. He hadn’t expected that thinly-disguised pained look.

“I’m not the same, Enjolras,” he said carefully. Enjolras remembered last night, insistent hands round his wrists, refusing permission to touch. He chewed his bottom lip, heart sinking. R sighed.

+

Aire looked intently at the man in his bed, his blonde curls sticking out in all directions, his round blue eyes confused and slightly hurt. How could he even begin to explain to him how he felt about his body, how he could barely look in the mirror, how Enjolras was the only one he had ever been with while completely naked.

He reasoned that at least Enjolras would understand why, that no lengthy explanation would be required. Perhaps the light should see what the dark had hidden so effectively.

He huffed, decisively.

“Just, don’t touch ok?” He saw Enjolras raise his eyes in confusion. He steeled himself, rubbing his eyes with his fingers before taking a very deep breath. He peeled off his t-shirt. He turned his head, looking away from himself, from Enjolras, from the inevitable look of horror and disgust.

+

Ridiculously, the first thing Enjolras focussed on was the mesh of silver scars on R’s arm below his shoulder, echoes of a broken mirror. It was a familiar mark, one that Enjolras knew well. He took in the sculpted arms, suggesting that Aire now attended a gym.

But his eyes kept roving, kept seeking, knowing exactly what R was referring to, what he was afraid of seeing.

These scars were not silver. They were thick, purple and flanked by little dots to mark the stitches. The surgeon’s knife had marked a number of paths vertically down R’s chest, around the scar tissue indicating the initial wound.

Enjolras was struck with the desire to kiss them, but he stayed where he was.

His eyes were then caught by stripes of black on Aire’s waist on the right. These he did reach out towards, taking R by surprise, the man jolting back until he realised where those fingers were pointed. He leaned back to allow the stripes to rearrange themselves at his waistline, to translate into something legible.

NOVISSIMA AUTEM INIMICA DESTRUETER MORS

“You got a tattoo?” _Well, obviously_ , he chided himself but R seemed to understand, nodding and looking down at it, running his own fingers across the latin words.

“‘The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death’. Seemed appropriate,” he smiled sadly.

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras murmured, unable to take his eyes from it. R braved a smile.

“Come on,” he said softly, his hand reaching for Enjolras, to press a small kiss to his cheek.

“I have a fair few things to do today.” He stood up to stretch.

Enjolras fought to hide his disappointment. Of course, it was time to leave, time to face the music. He turned to clamber from the warm bed, to gather up his clothes. He was surprised when strong hands caught him by the waist.

“Could you stay?” R muttered into his hair. Enjolras closed his eyes, sinking back against R’s chest. “I could use the support.”

He turned on the spot, slotting his own hands round the waist of the man that held him. His face broke into a smile without his permission, his whole being singing with delight at being home in these arms once more.

“For as long as you need,” he said. He was rewarded with a smile to equal his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two are killing me.
> 
> Firstly, many many thanks to marinotravelo for all her invaluable assistance as a beta - not sure I'd have been able to spit this chapter out without it. I have serious writers block at the moment so I really hope this flows ok.
> 
> Thanks for the kind comments. There is an overall plan for this. At the moment we're having a happy interlude which is probably why I'm struggling!


	4. Complimentary Colours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras goes home to face the music and they both consider the future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid this is something of a short chapter. I'm still struggling with the dreaded writer's block but I'm quite happy with how this has turned out.
> 
> I don't think there's anything nasty here, just a bit of a row.

The trip back down to Surrey was long and arduous. They had decided it would be best for Enjolras to return on the Saturday night because they knew that if he stayed until the Sunday morning, it would swiftly turn into Sunday afternoon and Enjolras had important school work that needed attending to. Saturday evening it was.

The past few days had been hard work. R had been trying his best to sort out his mother’s affairs, with a lot of welcome help from his grandparents. In between those moments, he and Enjolras had been relearning each other.

They had talked of R’s college course, of Enjolras’s conditional offer to University. R told him about how his Granddad had been a boxing champion in the 1960s and so had taken him down to his old boxing gym. He had discovered that a strange form of beauty was to be found in the ring. 

He also told Enjolras about the ballroom dancing classes his Grandma took him to on a Wednesday evening. As Enjolras almost fell off the bed with laughter he pretended to be affronted.

“I’ll have you know Dorothy and Ethel always have to toss a coin to see who gets to dance with me first,” he retorted indignantly.

They had briefly spoken of that day in April, finding that when it actually came to it, neither wanted to discuss it much. The house had been a target to arsonists so nearly all the contents had been lost but nothing R was particularly sad about. He had no idea what had happened to the phone Enjolras had given him. He did not consider that place his home. He was more at home here than he had ever been in that shell of a house.

+

The further away from Sheffield, the larger the lump in his heart. His time in the north had been somewhat surreal, falling far too easily back into old habits. Further to that, there was a new joy to be found in waking in R’s arms.

Aire’s grandparents had been very gracious about his sudden appearance in their house and were extremely tactful about the finer details regarding the sleeping arrangements and that Enjolras was quite clearly wearing R’s clothes which were rather baggy on his lithe frame.

R had been very grateful to have him by his side as he struggled forward with trying to sort out the final arrangements for his mother’s funeral. The body had finally been released to the coroner which led to something of a domino effect as other things began to fall into place.

As he hit the M25, he decided to pull in at a services to give his parents a quick heads-up that he would be back at home within the hour. As he paid for an overly expensive and quite frankly disgusting cup of coffee, he considered what kind of reception to expect. He knew it would hardly be warm and fuzzy.

They had spoken only once since the initial telephone call on Thursday evening. His mother had been quite conversational, wanting to know how R was, what he was up to these days, what Sheffield was like. His father had, apparently, been unable to come to the phone at the time.

Once he left the motorway behind him, his car found its way easily back to his parent’s house.  
He sat outside in the car for five minutes before deciding to get out. He fired off a quick text, first to R and then to Combeferre, gratuitously quoting from A Tale of Two Cities in an effort to lighten the atmosphere; after all, it was his home, not the guillotine, which he now walked towards. He steeled himself for whatever was about to greet him.

At the sound of his key in the lock, his mother appeared in the hallway. He dropped his bag down, wondering whether to head straight upstairs or if they should get their little chat out of the way first.

She swept him into a hug. It was the most positive part of the following twenty-five minutes. 

It began with a frosty hello to his father, a poor attempt at pleasantries. It had continued with a cold silence and an eventual spark at which point all hell broke loose.

It was ugly to see the father and son arguing with such bile, each point, each argument specially designed and honed to cause maximum pain.

He said he knew all about it, about how his father had paid for Aire to be taken away from him. How his father had accosted a grieving, shocked family for his own purpose, his own fears that his son should be involved in a scandal – heaven forbid! 

The father retorted that he was, once again, being painted as the villain, that he had merely offered his assistance; that it would be far easier for the grandparents to care for their daughter and grandson closer to home without worrying about the expense of travelling up and down the country. He conceded that he wasn’t happy about Enjolras’s involvement with Aire, especially at such a young age, and he would certainly not apologise for being worried about his own son.

“You have a bright future,” he’d shouted, eyes blazing, “I wasn’t about to have that thrown away before my eyes.”

Enjolras was not to be swayed. He moved swiftly onto the letters, onto the frankly baffling coincidence that none of R’s letters had managed to make it safely into the hands of the addressee. His father went purple.

“It’s just as well,” Enjolras snarled in fury, “that Elsa’s letter came while I was at home as I have no doubt that would have magically disappeared into thin air as well.”

His mother stood on the sidelines, eyes wide. At first she had tried to form a united front with her husband, saying that she understood that Enjolras was upset but really he should not be speaking to his father like this. However, as she heard what her son had to say, saw that the accusations were not denied, she fell silent. She was appalled, conflicted.

“You know, I’m sure it is illegal to interfere with other people’s post,” Enjolras spat. His father seemed to stand straighter, attempting to loom over him.

“Now, you listen here. You might think you’re an adult, but you’re not. While you live under this roof you’ll obey my rules,” he boomed, at which point they both realised the battle was lost. There was not a pin to pick between the looks of disgust and loathing on each face. Observing her husband and her son, it struck Enjolras’s mother that they were more alike than they were prepared to admit.

Enjolras’s top lip curled into a sneer. He shook his head in disgust.

“Oh don’t you worry, that shouldn’t be a problem for much longer.” He stormed out, up the stairs and the house shook as he slammed his bedroom door.

The parents looked at each other. Now that the angry youth was absent, the father seemed to regain a sense of self and an element of shame. He had behaved selfishly but it had been with the best intentions. He recalled with fear that visit from the police, telling them his only child was in hospital, had been involved in an incident where people had died. He was haunted by it.

He had been caught out by the sudden adulthood of his boy, his forays into sex, more than that, into discovering his own sexuality, his being gay. He could live with that; lots of people were gay. There were at least two in his office.

But he wanted nothing more than his child’s safety, to give him a chance in life and that would be better with all the horrible memories as far away as possible.

He tried to explain but his wife simply shook her head. She would not understand, could not see how a person could do such a thing without the consideration of the feelings of everyone involved.

“You knew it was wrong. That’s why you kept it from me,” she said quietly, unable to meet his eyes.

Thirty minutes later the front door banged as Enjolras left the house. Peering through the curtains, his mother satisfied herself that he did not clutch a bag. Additionally, he ignored his car, choosing instead to walk up the road in a northerly direction. He wasn’t going far.

+

Enjolras lay on his back on Combeferre’s bed while his friend tapped indifferently on his computer keyboard. Enjolras sighed, heavily. Combeferre whirled around on his computer chair.

“Enjolras, for heaven’s sake spit it out. You’ve been huffing and puffing over there for at least five minutes.” His eyes were conflicted with frustration and amusement.

“I just can’t believe my father did that!” his voice was loud with the frustration of it all. He pouted, shaking his head at the betrayal. Combeferre was sympathetic. He did not offer platitudes, although privately he understood what the father had tried to do, even though he had gone about it the wrong way. He saw the similarities between the father and son, the good intentions that were sometimes shrouded in terrible ideas.

Enjolras sat back, suddenly smiling to himself with the memories of the past few days. He tried to convey to Combeferre how it felt to be back in R’s presence again, how well they were together, without scarring his friend for life. 

He spoke of them as a unit, as a whole. They complimented each other so beautifully and now all the communication issues and misunderstandings had been resolved they could finally be together. More than that, it would be even better than before, because now Aire was free and safe.

Combeferre chuckled, never having seen his friend like this before. He had witnessed Enjolras’s scorn and terrible glances reserved for those foolish enough to try and tempt him to a candlelit dinner or private rendezvous with romantic intent. When Enjolras had told him about his relationship with the boy called R, he had trouble seeing it, trouble picturing Enjolras with anyone without his lofty look of disdain.

“How is this going to work, Enjolras?” he asked gently, half expecting his friend to leap down his throat. He took in the furrowed brow, the worried hands. Enjolras seemed to consider this, musing for a moment as he began to plan.

Enjolras had been thinking of nothing else since he had left Sheffield. Now that R was back he was determined not to let go. Three hundred miles was not going to get in the way. There were ways. They had swapped mobile numbers, email addresses. They could Skype. At weekends he would drive up to see him. They could do this. He sat up, his eyes alight.

“Whatever we decide, I feel like we've really turned a corner.” He pressed his hands together, nodding his head, planning it all out. Once A Levels were safely out of the way they would have the whole glorious summer to themselves. After that, well, Enjolras would be in London. That was even closer to Sheffield. Maybe R could go to Art college down south, perhaps even in London itself. They could share a flat in the second year. He saw the future stretching out before them, shining with promise.

“This could work. We can make it work.”

Combeferre smiled at his friend, loving to see that spark of hope and faith that made Enjolras soar.

+

This won't work. It can’t work.  
R sat back on his bed, staring at his ceiling while music chortled away to itself in the periphery of his consciousness.

He thought of the past few days, of the joy of having Enjolras in his life again. Enjolras in his bed, Enjolras in his shower, Enjolras in his clothes.

He thought of their hands clasped together, of how that warmth had made it bearable to be him for a few days, but he knew it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. 

He knew things Enjolras didn’t know. He had managed to hide the amount of medication that he was on just so that he could function on a daily basis, and even that didn’t work all year round. He knew he would fuck it all up eventually.

He knew how difficult he was to be around, to be in a relationship with. He had a few ex-boyfriends under his belt who had grown tired of his shit pretty quickly, of his commitment issues, his secrecy, his insecurity and his total inability to trust anyone. They had tried to fix him but R did not want to be fixed. He wanted to be left alone. He finally held autonomy over his own destiny and that was how it would stay. No one would ever tell him how to live ever again. No exceptions.

He sat up and crossed over to his desk, pulling open the drawer to retrieve an envelope. He brushed his fingers across it, across his name on its front and the embossed seal of the Rhode Island School of Design. He knew the contents of this letter. He knew it was the reason his relationship with Enjolras was never going to work.

He knew he should have told Enjolras that first night, before he had let him get under his skin and into his bed. He should have told him about the plane already booked for the middle of August to take him to the New World. But how could he be the one to re-break their hearts after Enjolras had come all that way, had come back when he needed him the most? How cruel the dice had fallen, to give him such a choice. To stay in England with Enjolras with no future, no hope and only bitter memories, or to travel, to get away from everything, to leave it all behind once and for all. That was the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh right, did I forget to mention that I'm actually a really terrible person and there was no way this happiness was going to last for long? My apologies...
> 
> Enjolras's quote from Tale of Two Cities is the last words of Sydney Carton: "It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."


	5. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months, six moments.

_March_

It took a few moments for the call to connect, but even when it started to ring, Enjolras did not release the breath he was holding. After five rings, he wondered whether R would answer his phone.

In the last three weeks he had learnt that Aire wasn't just talking physically when he said he wasn't the same. While the sadness and fear seemed to have gone, it had been replaced with an unfamiliar hardness, a self-sufficiency that only compounded Aire’s existing neuroses regarding pity. He didn’t like to be compartmentalised, categorised or otherwise be rendered predictable. His moods swung from day to day, making him sometimes impossible to talk to.

Despite this, Enjolras could still hear the warm, generous, vibrant boy he used to know underneath the biting sarcasm. The bark of laughter was also reassuringly familiar. He listened more than he talked, interjecting here and there with comments, questions and oaths. R's casual use of bad language was something that definitely hadn’t changed.

But sometimes he went quiet, the silence almost aggressive, especially if Enjolras tried to talk about the future or make any kind of plans. Even silly things like "shall I give you a ring tomorrow?" - R seemed reluctant to commit to anything even as vague as that.

Enjolras tried to accommodate this, calling at sporadic times, sometimes leaving a few days between chats, choosing to text or email instead. He understood that R had become fiercely protective of his privacy, now that he had some. He couldn’t help but feel hurt that this seemed to extend to him too. He desperately wanted to be let in.

The call was finally answered with a muffled "yelloo?"

"Sorry, were you sleeping?"

Enjolras felt a stab of remorse. In his efforts to be unpredictable he had left this call until 10:30pm which wasn't late by his standards but maybe R had already retired for the night.

"No, sorry was in the shower." Enjolras closed his eyes, allowing that image to fill his mind. He could almost hear R's smirk down the phone. He smiled too; it sounded like R was having a good day.

He sat back on his bed, sighing contentedly.

“How’s it going?” Aire asked lightly, sounding genuinely interested. It was a relief to hear him. When they had spoken three days before he had been short, gruff and stressed.

“Oh, the same. They’re not talking to each other and he’s definitely not talking to me.”

“Sounds nice and quiet,” the other man commented, dryly.

It was incredibly quiet in his house, no doubt about it. After the big row, Enjolras had decided to stay at Combeferre’s for a few days, on the excuse that there was an important Politics presentation that needed to be finalised. After three days his mother had phoned him and told him in no uncertain terms to grow up and come home. As she so rarely lost her temper with him, he had obeyed.

He found the change in dynamic in his house unnerving. His mother was unusually quiet and stressed. His father was out of the house for long absences and when he was there he didn’t say a word to anyone. Two weeks ago he had discovered that his father had moved into the spare room. He was appalled. Although he had been angry and hurt by recent discoveries that didn’t mean his parents should be arguing over it, much less that they should be splitting up over it. He stumbled into the kitchen to his mother, confused and afraid that he had inadvertently destroyed his parents' marriage.

She had taken his hand and silenced him with terribly sad eyes.

“Your father has kept a lot of secrets. This was just one more.” It was all she would say on the subject. The guilt had eaten away at him, nonetheless.

Combeferre had been a total gem about the whole thing, quietly offering reassurance and a reliable, constant presence as Enjolras’s world shifted even more around him. His own parents had divorced years ago and he now lived with his father while his mother had her new family somewhere in Malta. While this knowledge didn’t make Enjolras feel any better, as he definitely didn’t want to see his parents go through a divorce, it did comfort him to have someone who understood.

It meant that when he spoke to R, he could carry a conversation in a casual, easy fashion, as though this wasn’t tearing away at his insides. Instead, they spoke of less domestic matters.

Aire had noticed how Enjolras had also changed, had altered the way he interacted with the world around him. It was no longer enough to read political texts or listen to politically motivated rock bands. He seemed to be addicted to the news, reading a number of different websites; some commercial, some not, some reliable, others that were equally unreliable. He was eager to consume as many sources as possible. Some he read seemingly for the sole purpose of angrily disagreeing with them, ripping their articles apart piece by piece.

He was motivated by change. There was always a petition, a fundraiser, a gathering, a protest. Aire watched and listened as this driven young man shouted at the world. R wondered what it was that kept him going when all Aire ever wanted to do was stop.

His anger seemed to transcend politics, forming itself into society and culture. He had an opinion on everything; cuts to education, the police force, social welfare; foodbanks (lack of and use of) sexism, racism, fathers4justice, rape culture, genital mutilation, homophobia, transphobia, equal marriage, adoption issues, political corruption – the list was never ending. He had an idea for everything, a vision to fix it all if only people would listen, would work together, would understand.

“The people don't want to understand,” R had replied wearily one night, interrupting one of Enjolras’s longer speeches.

“They should be made to,” came the angry response which made R laugh heartily down the phone.

“Oh, Apollo,” he chided, “Isn't that a form of oppression in itself?”

They both enjoyed these calls more than they would care to admit. They always ended with a brain full of new ideas for Enjolras and a natural smile on R's face that his grandmother was a little too pleased to see.

"You've been talking to Enjolras" she would say, knowingly. No amount of rolled eyes and shrugged shoulders could divert her from her satisfied expression.

This evening the conversation was less heavy. Down the line, R could hear that Enjolras was tired, his voice strained. He slumped down on his bed, listening to Enjolras mutter about his day; the student council meeting, the year book meeting, his Politics essay that was due in two weeks.

R gave very little to conversations like this, replying with an agreeing hum as and when required. He pictured Enjolras stretched out on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He tried to remember the details of Enjolras’s room and he wondered if it had changed much since he had last been there.

“Do you still have that Paris 68 poster?” he interrupted suddenly, throwing Enjolras off guard. There was a pause.

“Yes?” Enjolras replied as if there could possibly be a wrong answer to that question. He gracefully ignored the fact that R was quite clearly not listening to what he had actually been talking about. He was met with a thoughtful silence. He decided to continue.

“The Rage Against the Machine one has gone – it got ripped one day when ‘Ferre fell over in my room.” There was a different sort of silence from Sheffield.

“Ferre?”

 _Oh right_ , Enjolras mentally kicked himself. He hadn’t actually gotten round to telling R about his new friend. He tried to ignore the slightly uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that accompanied this, deciding to save the analysis of it for another time.

“My mate in sixth form,” he tried casually. _My guide, my best friend, the one who got me through all this_ …

“Right.”

The word was too short, too clipped, for Enjolras to read it properly. He felt a sudden stab of indignation. What should it matter who Ferre was? He knew damn well R had been with other people up in Sheffield, why should it bother him if Enjolras had met other people down here? And yet he still felt he needed to explain that it wasn’t like that.

Sometimes it felt like he was constantly explaining that to people. Yes, Combeferre was his best friend. No, he wasn’t his boyfriend. Yes, Ferre was straight. Yes, that was allowed.

He opened his mouth to give a scathing retort but then he stopped. He didn’t want a fight right now, especially not about this.

“Your Trafalgar picture is still here too,” he murmured quietly into the phone. He heard a sigh from very far away.

+

_April_

Enjolras had been worrying about this phone call for a few days. The Easter holidays were looming, along with the two year benchmark that nobody wanted to talk about. Last year Enjolras had spent the day studying, pretending that it was actually the 6th April all over again. R spent last year in hospital, another follow up appointment for his one remaining kidney.

Enjolras desperately wanted to go away somewhere but he knew R hated making plans. He mulled over the problem in his head for ages, thinking of various ways to approach R with his suggestion that wouldn’t end in a fight. There had been a row the week before when he'd tried to pin him down to whether or not Enjolras would be welcome to come up for the weekend. Not heeding R's non-committal "whatever you want", Enjolras had tried to ask him about times and plans which had resulted in a number of phrases involving the word "fuck" and the call being terminated.

Perhaps if he phrased it in such a way as to suggest that he was already going somewhere and that R was welcome to join him? Or maybe if they could just agree to do something and sort out the finer details later. In the end he decided to just bite the bullet, be honest and attempt to be vaguely assertive.

"I want to go on holiday with you for Easter," he said.

"Ok," came the almost lazy reply.

Enjolras nearly dropped the phone. What, no tantrum? No heavy sigh? No lecture or avoidance behaviour or deflective rant on an unrelated subject?

"Anywhere in particular?" R chose to fill the silence when Enjolras failed to respond.

"Somewhere with a beach," he swallowed. He could feel Aire's smile from three hundred miles away.

+

They ended up in Southwold, a sweet little town on the Suffolk coast with a number of cosy pubs and a lighthouse. They rented a little cottage within easy walking distance of the sea. Despite the early spring chill, R insisted on sleeping with the windows open, the soft sound of the waves seeping into the room and lulling them to sleep.

Enjolras was relieved and delighted to find R so relaxed, so open. His focus was entirely on Enjolras, on the here and now. His smiles were easy and came often. His laugh was wicked, his face expressive. His hands naturally found their way around Enjolras, round his waist and hips, through his hair and fingers, over his throat and shoulders.

For once the past had been left at the door and both men revelled in it.

The warm days were spent on the beach, Enjolras with his book while R sketched with enthusiasm. There was no shortage of subjects; the lighthouse itself seemed to take its job very seriously, watching over the little town. The views were spectacular and the little beach huts that lined the shore were too colourful to resist. He also sketched his favourite subject of all; Enjolras. He drew Enjolras asleep, Enjolras in the sea, Enjolras curled up in the bed sheets.

They did all the usual touristy things. They went round the brewery, visited the museum and the pier and the Sailor's Reading room. They walked easily down the high street, hand in hand.

The day it rained they hardly noticed, electing to spend the whole day in bed, wrapped up in each other. As they rolled together, Enjolras wondered if there could be anything better in the world than this moment, anything more honest, anything more worth fighting for.

+

_May_

They were in R's bed, the radio quietly murmuring to itself while they folded themselves together. It was one of their weekends which were becoming fewer due to the inevitably looming exams.

Enjolras had driven up on the Friday night so they could have most of Saturday together before he drove back in the evening, devoting his Sunday to study.

"We should do something," he whispered into R’s shoulder, kissing the soft skin there. R wrapped his arms around the blonde in his bed, pulling him even closer to him, pressing a kiss to his curls.

"We are doing something," he insisted, playfully.

"I don’t want to waste the day. I want to go and see some of the battlefields from the Civil War,” Enjolras didn’t even open his eyes while he spoke. “ The King was finally defeated in Preston, that can’t be far from here."

"Wrong side of the Pennines," muttered Aire into his skin, running hopeful fingers past the other man's ribs. Enjolras playfully shoved him.

"I know that; there is such a thing as a car." He leant up on one elbow, his face pulled into a ridiculous pout. R groaned, rolling his hips encouragingly at his bed partner.

“A wise man once started a revolution from his bed.” He started to kiss down Enjolras’s neck, beginning behind his ear and trailing his lips down his throat, making the other man moan almost imperceptibly.

“You… you are not John Lennon,” Enjolras gasped, but he knew he was lost. R’s hands had already sought him out, had already grasped him firmly and were now moving gently but insistently up and down his shaft. He allowed his eyes to fall closed as R flicked his tongue over his nipples, teasing them. He paused in his attentions to fumble in the bedside drawer, before returning with slicked fingers that teased around him, finding him still slightly stretched from the night before. He whimpered as those clever fingers thrust in.

“You’re so good, so beautiful,” R was practically purring as he continued to kiss his way across Enjolras’s body, sometimes biting the flesh before blowing softly on the nipped skin. Enjolras’s hands clawed at the sheets as he thrust down, fucking himself on R’s fingers, desperate for more. R withdrew them, tutting gently.

“Needy boy,” he chastised, grabbing the foil packet from the side.

“Please, R, please,” Enjolras’s tone was breathy, his curls clung to his forehead, his eyes closed and such a look of need, of desire on his face. R took it all in, wondering how on earth he should be lucky enough to witness this.

He knelt up, Enjolras’s legs around his waist, and gently pushed in. Enjolras moaned a sigh, leaning back into his pillow with pleasure. Aire went deliberately slowly, drawing out every moan, every whimper he could from the writhing mass below him until Enjolras could barely beg for more.

“Just, please, god, fuck” the stream of words continued and Enjolras stretched underneath him in frustration, keening into him with a groan. R moved suddenly, grabbing the other man’s wrists and pinning them above his head. Enjolras’s eyes flew open to meet the brown ones staring steadily down at him.

“I still fucking love you,” he growled in a low voice, as though making a confession. He then bent to kiss him harshly, biting down hard on Enjolras’s lips as he began to speed up, thrusting harder and faster, feeling the coil of heat in his guts building and surging. One hand continued to press Enjolras’s crossed wrists to the pillows, while he moved the other to his cock, fisting it in rhythm with his thrusts.

Enjolras cried out, surprised by his own orgasm, splashing his chest with his release. It took R only a few more thrusts before he collapsed on top of him, finally releasing his grip. Enjolras instantly wrapped his arms around the man above him, rubbing his back gently, kissing the brown curls as R lay there, breathing raggedly into his shoulder.

“I still love you too,” he whispered, half frightened that R might hear him, half terrified that he might not. R didn’t move.

After a while, he rolled off and trudged towards the bathroom to fetch a flannel. When he came back, he seemed unable to meet Enjolras’s eye, but when the blonde reached for his shoulder, he leant into the touch. Enjolras scooted over and wrapped his arms around him, drawing him into a warm embrace. He felt R drop his head on his shoulder, his hands resting at Enjolras’s waist.

“I wouldn’t say that was a waste, would you?” he asked into Enjolras’s neck, his tone serious. “Our time together has always been precious. I don't think we've wasted a second.”

+

_June_

Enjolras almost threw his phone across his bedroom in frustration. Why, WHY was he apparently unable to have a conversation with his… whatever his relationship was with R… why could they never just talk without it ending with someone slamming the phone down in anger?

It was a warm evening. Exams were over and now only the summer stretched on ahead of them. He had left school with the certainty that he would never look back, it was finally done. All he had to do was wait for his results and then prepare for University in October.

He had wanted to share this feeling of elation with R. Unfortunately it had obviously been one of Aire’s bad days because the conversation had not gone as planned and had definitely not ended well.

Pausing long enough to get a grip on his temper, he decided to text Combeferre. Ten minutes later the pair of them were sitting in Enjolras’s room listening to loud angry music while Enjolras ranted about their latest argument to his patient yet receptive friend.

Enjolras threw himself back onto the bed in frustration, pulling a pillow over his head melodramatically.

“I know I love him, but sometimes I want to throttle him.” Combeferre smiled affectionately as the pillow was hurled across the room. Enjolras rubbed his eyes, letting out a steadying sigh.

“Sometimes I feel like he’s deliberately pushing me away,” he said, his tone quieter, more fearful than angry.

“Maybe that is what he expects?” Combeferre offered. He had never met the guy, but he knew how Enjolras felt, knew what Enjolras had told him.

“He obviously has issues with trust. You guys are conducting an intense relationship over quite a distance,” he held his hands up as Enjolras moved to interrupt. “I know you’re committed, but he may expect you to walk away all the same.”

Enjolras considered this for a moment. He thought back to before, to the way Aire used to look at him, like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him. He remembered with a shiver the time R had thought Enjolras had broken up with him, the way he was almost resigned to it. It seemed as though, from the very beginning, he had expected Enjolras to walk away like everyone else in his life had walked away. He was always so surprised when Enjolras kept coming back.

He twisted his mouth unhappily, tugging his hands through his hair.

“I need to talk to him, face to face,” he said, distractedly. Combeferre nodded wisely. Usually direct communication was the way to go. He also knew that Enjolras could probably have figured that one out for himself. He felt a rush of affection for the confused person in front of him. It was so different to see him struggle like this, to be so unsure of the best course of action. He hoped it was all worth it.

+

_July_

Aire knew something was wrong as soon as he stepped out of his bathroom, towel slung round his waist, curls still dripping. Enjolras was sitting stiffly in the desk chair, shoulders hunched, his back to the room. As he drew closer he could see that Enjolras was clutching something tightly in his hands.

It was the prospectus for the Art school.

"Why the fuck are you going through my stuff?" His voice was harsh with aggression and defensiveness, but he wasn’t quite shouting, not yet.

"You said I could check my emails," the response was equally defensive, equally aggressive. "It was right beside the keyboard, as though you wanted me to find it.”

Blue eyes stared at brown, both angry, neither willing to break first, to back down. R snatched the prospectus from his hands, opened a drawer and threw it inside. He slammed the drawer shut as though the closing of the drawer could make the damn thing disappear from reality.

"So this is why..." Enjolras stopped himself with a shake of his head. All this time he had thought it was a trust issue, something that could be worked through with enough time, enough patience, when really it was R who was preparing to leave. He looked up at the man standing above him, his anger sucked away, replaced by hurt and betrayal.

“Were you ever going to tell me?” he felt his voice crack. _Oh, he was not going to cry. Not here, not over this_. “Or were you just going to email me once you got there?”

He saw the twitch in Aire’s shoulders, the way he took a small step back, his eyes closing down.

“I couldn’t tell you,” he said quietly, all emotion absent. “Not when I knew you’d react like this.”

Enjolras threw himself out of the chair to his feet, drawing himself up to his full height, his eyes blazing.

“How would you like me to react?” he took a step forward, the heat in his voice bearing down on the man in front of him.

“I thought we had a future, I thought we had a chance. When all this time…” he stopped, unable to continue. He closed his eyes, drawing in his breaths carefully.

“How long?”

R stared hopelessly at the cracked marble before him. Well, he’d started, he may as well finish the job. Finish it finally.

“They gave me an unconditional offer in January. About two weeks before mum died.”

Enjolras was done. He was so done.

+

_August_

His grandmother's hands were like old leaves, they brushed his cheek in a soft, comforting gesture. She stared up at him with so much pride it pierced his soul. What did he ever do to deserve a look like that?

She told him that he was to have the most amazing time out in Rhode Island, but that if he could remember to call home once or twice it would be appreciated. She kissed him on each cheek without apology before hugging him painfully tight. Her boy, her dearest boy was going away. She was allowed this.

His grandfather patted his shoulder, his eyes also swimming with pride. They communicated silently, understanding each other well. They had said their goodbyes in the pub the night before – one more for old time’s sake. Both knew there were no words to be said now.

"Let us know when you land safely," she instructed, arranging the collar of his coat absently.

"It'll be the middle of the night," he protested but she laughed, producing a hankie to wipe her suddenly full eyes.

"You seem to be under the illusion that I'll be sleeping, my lad." She tried to keep her tone light but he knew her heart was breaking.

Their tiny family had been through a lot and here they were; one more separation. But this one was a good one.

She caught him casting a hopeless glance around the departures hall. He had to go through now or he'd miss his flight.

 _Damn him_ , he knew better than to hope. He knew that Enjolras would not come. Was it even hope that kept his eyes wondering to the door? Or was it merely to confirm once and for all that he was right. That, for once, Enjolras was really gone.

This is not a dark moment, he reminded himself. Apollo shone brightest in the dark.

With one last hug, he presented his passport at the counter and moved along with the rest of the queue, keeping his eyes forward. As he turned into the line for security he failed to hear the shout of his name as Enjolras hurtled into the terminal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was something of a "difficult second album" for me, impeded by a crushing amount of writer's block and an absolute stinker of a cold for the past 24 hours.
> 
> Anyway, here we are. Please don't hang me out to dry just yet - there's more to come. Part 3 is already mostly written.

**Author's Note:**

> Just FYI, I'm lynchy8 on tumblr if you want to say hi
> 
> \----
> 
> Title is taken from the Brick.


End file.
